


Bits and Bobs

by makokitten



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Beginnings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing John Watson expects to hear after Afghanistan is that someone plans on fixing his arm, because, usually, when you lose an arm to a Beam Cannon, it's not coming back.  But it's a new age he's living in now, and Sherlock Holmes is far from usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bits and Bobs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChapBook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChapBook/gifts).



> A long overdue commission fic that I wrote for DashCon 2014. Enjoy!

* * *

            Doctor John H. Watson lost his good arm in Afghanistan to one of those newfangled Beam Cannons.  He’s not sure why anyone ever wanted to upgrade from the regular ones that’d just hurl cannonballs at you, but it’s a new age now, an age of steam and glory, as the most patriotic call it, and things like Beam Cannons exist.  One of the men in John’s regiment had attempted clumsily to explain how they worked, back when John was feeling warmer toward them.  You know, back when he still had a left arm.

            The medical men who treat him say that he’s lucky to have any bits at all, considering that most people who get hit by those things are instantly vaporized.  They send him back to London with the highest commendations, an army pension, and a tingling sensation in fingers that are no longer there when he wakes up in the morning.  John Watson finds himself left with spare change in his right pocket, a limp, and no idea what to do with himself next. 

            That changes when he has a run-in with Mike Stamford, old friend, who takes him aside in the corner of the Criterion and says, “I think I know someone who can solve all your problems.”

            Now, John isn’t sure what can possibly be done about his arm, but the issue of where to find inexpensive lodgings has been plaguing him for some time, so he follows Mike to Barts, where a potential flatmate ostensibly awaits him.

            “An interesting fellow,” Mike says, checking back to make sure John is keeping pace before stopping in front of a door.  “He tends to haunt this particular laboratory.  See what you think of him.”

            “What do  _you_  think of him?” John asks.

            Mike lets out a big-bellied laugh.  “It’s hard to explain.  We don’t always know what he does in there,” he confesses.  “Some consulting for Scotland Yard, yes, but that doesn’t cover nearly all of it.  We do hear the odd banging noise once in a while, but no one dares to ask.”

            John has more than his fair share of experience with odd banging noises, so he leans his cane against the doorframe and opens the door, right-handed.

            The laboratory is cramped, small, filled with various and sundry objects that shine in the light of gaslamps.  The man bent over the table in the center has a full head of dark, curly hair; he adjusts an eye loupe so as to better examine his current project, something with gears and spokes.  John notices that he’s not wearing a jacket, only a waistcoat, the white cotton shirt underneath spotted with grease.  When he hears the door open, he glances up only briefly before returning to his work.  Mike Stamford says, “Dr. John Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

            “Mr. Holmes,” says John, nodding.

            “Call me Sherlock,” says Sherlock, reaching for some tool that emits sparks and applying it to his contraption.  “Recently returned from Afghanistan, I see.”

            John feels his mouth go dry.  “How did you know that?”

            The question is ignored.  Sherlock puts down his sparking implement to look up at John once more.  His eyes gleam, or maybe it’s the lighting.  “Let me have a look at your arm.”

            After glancing at Mike, who shrugs and nods, John limps over to Sherlock’s workstation, props his cane against the table, and holds out his right arm for examination.  Sherlock scoffs.  “No,” he says.  “Your other arm.”

            John laughs, but the remark stings him.  “You’re very funny, Mr. Holmes,” he says dryly.  “Is that how you knew I’d just got back from the war?”

            “Don’t be presumptuous.”  Sherlock, who isn’t at all phased by John’s tone, only waves his hand dismissively.  “Many ways to lose an arm these days.  How do you expect me to fix yours if you won’t let me see it?”

            Few things shock John Watson these days, but upon hearing that this madman intends to repair him he finds himself having to lean up against the table.  “What—fix my arm?”  He splutters.  “Is that what you do here, build spare parts for… people?”

            “I dabble in prosthetics and many other applications of mechanical engineering,” says Sherlock, indicating the table.  “Considering the world we live in, it seems only practical.”  He looks down at what he’d been working on, and John can now see that it’s a metallic piece in the shape of a human finger, wires and cogs exposed.  Whether or not it’d actually function, he cannot say.

            “I’ll fit you for a new left arm—your dominant arm, if I’m not mistaken—free of charge, but I’ll need unrestricted access to you for measurements and fittings,” Sherlock continues.  “Of course, when we’re sharing a flat that won’t be an issue.”

            “Just wait, just slow down,” says John, holding up his hand.  “Who said anything about sharing a flat?”

            “I did.  I mentioned to Mike that I’d found a flat in Central London but couldn’t afford to keep it alone, and he turns up with you, an army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan looking for a place to stay  _and_  an opportunity for mutually beneficial research.  Too tidy to be a coincidence, don’t you think?”

            John doesn’t have anything to say to that.  Truthfully, he’s just trying to keep pace—this is the most bizarre and exhilarating thing that’s happened to him in a number of weeks.

            “221B Baker Street.  Meet me there tomorrow,” says Sherlock Holmes, scrawling it quickly on a torn leaf of paper.  “Once you’ve deemed the premises to your liking, we can start working on your new arm.”

            “And what about my leg?” John asks, only half-joking.  “Can’t do anything about this bloody limp, can you?”

            “The leg will take care of itself,” Sherlock says, smiling.  “You’ll see.”  He paces over to the coat rack, retrieves his jacket and coat with a flourish, bids them good afternoon, and goes on his way, leaving John Watson to stare in his wake.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I really love steampunk AUs, and this one is such a solid beginning for adventures and shenanigans but I don't have time to flesh it out, if you want to write your own story/draw something that uses this story as a basis, go wild! If there's enough interest, I'd be happy to create a Bits and Bobs collection on AO3 to keep all the works with the common basis archived together. Feel free to contact me [on Tumblr](http://makokitten.tumblr.com/) if you're interested.
> 
> (Or you could easily go off and write your own, unrelated AU, and that would be fine. Steampunks for all! Steampunks everywhere!)


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